He walked as if thought had weight.
For years he shambled blind to the sky,
his neck tipping forward as if his head
were too heavy, as if he could not carry
his own body.
Perhaps the poor man was uncertain
of his footing, plodding a backyard
clearing of hummocks, pox of moles,
voles and other diggers he never saw
by daylight.
Or perhaps he was recalling
galling scenes at the public works,
the local library, the supermarket,
places where he was at the mercy
of functionaries.
Or maybe just observing his heart’s
beating, which seemed less assured
the more he tried to soothe it quiet,
give it room, ignore its constant
nagging.
And what was overhead anyway
but a snare of bare branches. Until…
one day, while wishing his pulse
away once more, something caught
his ear
like a crumble of paper, and he looked
up to see a streak of cloud, cirrus,
reminding him of lazing back home
on his father’s green lawn, where he
would dream
a future not at all as difficult
as this one, as tending his own
garden. And when the hawk dragged
its shadow over last summer’s leaves,
and called to him,
a brittle sound left his lips,
a response too subtle to be a gasp,
an intake, perhaps, a sip of himself
he had been missing for too long
without knowing.
John Tessitore has been a newspaper reporter, a magazine writer, and a biographer. He has taught British and American history and literature at colleges around Boston and has directed national policy studies on education, civil justice, and cultural policy. He serves as Co-Editor 'Across the Pond' for The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press.
His poems have appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Boats Against the Current, Wild Roof and elsewhere. His chapbooks, novella, and podcast are all available through his official website.
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